


If Only To Deny You Satisfaction

by Florayna



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: And her wife, F/F, Jaina ICan'tTakeAnyMooreOfYourShit, Lots of Shade, Political Marriage, Shade, Shady Lady of the Forsaken, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-01 08:05:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16280765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Florayna/pseuds/Florayna
Summary: The Burning of Teldrassil started a war one year ago. Now, it's ended, and Azeroth knows peace once more. But peace isn't all Sylvanas Windrunner, or Jaina Proudmoore might've hoped it would be. After all, now they have to deal with -each other-.Till death do them part.The only question is; how soon will that be?





	1. I Do, x2

_Jaina Proudmoore._

__

It would be impossible to find someone unaffected by the conflicts that wrought Azeroth in it’s most recent years. Yet it would be harder still to find someone more broken by them than Jaina Proudmoore.

 

That was Sylvanas‘ belief, anyway. In their many interactions over the last few weeks she had found the mage to be… unpleasantly sharp. Prickly in both manner and appearance. Ever present bags beneath her eyes  that somehow failed to dull her permanent glare. Posture that folded into itself like a threatened spider, words nearly as sharp as a Windrunner’s arrow. Always a strand or two of hair escaping that awfully plain braid.

 

When Kul Tiras’s representative entered the hall where talks were being held, Sylvanas bitterly likened her to the Scourge when it swept over her homeland. Determined, dangerous, and an altogether thorn in her side.

 

Anyone would have been changed if their city were reduced to ash, but it was only logical for the Warchief to assume these changed were drastic to say the least. Because how, by the Sunwell, how had a human woman with no redeemable qualities besides her intelligence and arcane abilities manage to lure  **two** princes in. One of which, royalty of her former people?  
  
Was she sweeter before? One of those pretty young humans, who batted their lashes and blushed at the slightest bit of attention? Was she pleasant company? Could she hold a conversation without disdain seeping into her voice? Without threatening to wound someone on all her jaded edges?

 

Perhaps it was just her body.

 

Though it was hardly as if Sylvanas would know if that were the case. The outfit of the ‘Lord Admiral’ was thick, and flowing. Gloves, layers, a high collar. Everything save an obviously ample chest was left to the imagination, and a sour personality didn’t spark a very… flattering image.

 

Even as she stood now. In a dress that had traded ‘bulky and battle ready’ for ‘ridiculously ornate’ it was frustratingly hard to make out the actual, authentic form of Lady Proudmoore. But Sylvanas had to admit, the ensemble did have it’s appeal.

 

The train of the gown draped over the stone floor like fresh sea foam. New, pure, untouched by the world and trailing for quite a distance behind Jaina. Several feet at least. The gown was obviously fashioned with her roots in mind, styled to make the woman seem as though she were the ocean itself. Wrapped in crystal blue waves and the sea breeze. If Sylvanas looked at it too long, she swore her eyes caught it glimmering like a lake surface beneath the sun.

 

The dressed was stunning, as far as human fashion went. The woman herself however?

  
  
The elf’s sneer was only restrained by the success (however limited) of the makeup artist that tended Jaina. The signs of fatigue were covered rather well, starkly blue eyes shadowed pleasantly, a gaunt appearance somehow made to glow. Artificially, of course. Sylvanas could see the clear lack of any trace of happiness in her eyes.

 

There was no product to mask the animosity in those.

 

When asked, Sylvanas Windrunner, Warchief of the Horde, Dark Lady of the Forsaken, nodded once. Her words echoed more than they normally did, reverberating through the hall.

 

“I do.“

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

_Sylvanas Windrunner._

 

Jaina spent her young life advocating for peace. Years were given, lives were lost, countless restless nights were suffered trying to resolve racial tensions that ran far too deep. Despite all of this, even if Theramore had never met the devastation of a mana-bomb, Jaina would never have sought peace with the Banshee Queen’s Horde. The atrocities they had committed were of course unforgivable, but then there was the woman herself.

 

To put it _entirely_ too nicely, Sylvanas Windrunner was like a black cloud on a sunny day. Just as the mage imagined. Jaina couldn’t help but scowl whenever she opened her mouth, every venomous word worse than a siren’s screech. Chin raised as she made no effort to hide the way her crimson eyes scanned the room. Unimpressed, uninterested, and unhappy as a noble forced to walk through the slums.

 

The Lord Admiral quickly caught onto the way her ashen ears flicked whenever she was addressed by an Alliance Leader. As if she were annoyed to have to speak during **peace talks.**

****

After all the lives she had taken, the war she had started, Jaina could never have anticipated that behaviour. She didn’t expect humility, or apologies, just some modicum of respect. And the Dark Lady had proven incapable of conjuring that. It was almost unbelievable. And it made her stomach turn with something between disgust and anger.

 

The Warchief stood before her now, far closer than the two had ever been before. Outfitted in a set of armour comprised of hard leathers and dark chainmail. She seemed just as confident without her hood nor weapons, or perhaps just bored. Her eyes didn’t glow quite so brightly, her usually severely drawn brows and tight lips relaxed. Passive.

 

It was good, Jaina decided, that ‘Passive’ was the mask Sylvanas decided to wear. Anything more provoking might have stopped Jaina Proudmoore, Lord Admiral of Kul Tiras, from saying;

 

“I do.“

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

The unfortunate elderly man officiating the ceremony swallowed thickly. He was sweating, by the light, he was sweating __so much.__

__

“I then pronounce you wife and… wife.“


	2. When Mekkatorque Muttered, 'Oh My'...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How Sylvanas and Jaina came to this arrangement. 
> 
> And the sole interaction of their wedding day's night.

Early in the talks it had been agreed that Sylvanas would marry someone of the Alliance. An influential family, someone well versed in politics, someone capable themselves. Someone with enough will to keep the Dark Lady in check.

 

Anduin had seen to it that a list of potential suitors was made. The list was… short, to say the least. Not many men were willing to marry the Banshee Queen no matter how much was offered, no matter how great a service to the crown it would be. And who could blame them? Sylvanas was hardly the ideal wife.

 

The small number who did volunteer were made obsolete when the Warchief looked at the list.

 

She stood at the head of the table that ran down the middle of their meeting hall. Donning her armour and a scowl. Her crimson eyes lifted from the list after just a few moments.

 

“These are all men, yes?’’

 

Anduin, dressed in his priestly finery, nodded from the other end. “Of course Lady Windrunner. We have invited each to our quarter of Lordaeron, so you may meet them personally before selec-’’  
  
“Women.” The echoing voice of the Dark Lady cut through Anduin’s words as they left his mouth. From the assembled leaders, she earned quite a few raised brows. A gasp from Gallywix, a growl from Genn. Mekkatorque muttered a quiet ‘Oh my’. After giving the others a moment to react as they pleased, she threw the parchment onto the table as though she were throwing dice. “I suppose you will have to make another list, _my king_ , or…’’

 

Jaina stood quite a distance away from Sylvanas, the mage hunched over the table as she inspected a section of map spread across it. But her eyes narrowed as the Banshee Queen deliberately trailed off, and her eyes moved to… Greymane.

 

“You have a daughter as well, do you not?’’

 

By the time Jaina turned to look back at him, the old king had already taken his beastly form. Lips pulled back in a snarl. The only thing keeping him from lunging forward was Falstad’s firm grip on his left arm, and Tyrande’s on his right. Both of them deceptively strong for their statures.

 

She also saw, in the corner of her eye, Anduin regaining his composure. Preparing to speak. To soothe. To let this blatant disrespect- this insultgo unpunished.

 

Jaina would not allow it, if only to deny Sylvanas the satisfaction.

 

“I’ll do it.”

 

There was no subtle intrigued this time. Just obvious surprise. Genn was shocked into stillness- even Saurfang’s jaw went noticeably slack for a moment, while Baine and many others stared at Jaina. As if unsure if she were honest- if there was something to follow those words.

 

Sylvanas however, gave no hint of emotion save for the gradually returning scowl that curled her lips. Pale blonde brows knit as she regarded Jaina. Whatever thoughts that ran through her mind impossible to guess.

 

Silence prevailed over the room for many moments. Nobody quite sure what to say. Until Sylvanas spoke once more.

 

“I would find this an agreeable arrangement, Lord Admiral.’’

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Have you done as I asked, Lady Proudmoore?”

  
  
Jaina drew a breath, and allowed the question to hang heavy in the air. From the window in her room she admired the Northern half of Lordaeron.

 

The Western Quarter- a bulwark against the night. Chimneys puffed with smoke, lit torches lined every path and street corner. Then there was the bonfire that roared at the centre of the district even more impressive than those of the Midsummer celebrations. Jaina frowned as her nose caught smoke on the breeze, and her eyes spied people- her people carousing around the flames. Enjoying the festivities the night had to offer.

 

After all. There had been a royal wedding just hours ago. Served to the public were enough drinks to drown a dwarven town, and foods that would impress even the Shal’dorei that visited.

 

She was certain Sylvanas’ people were celebrating as well, in the Eastern Quarter. Although it looked as dead and dark as it’s inhabitants.

 

"Proudmoore.”

 

The Kul Tiran’s brows furrowed. Evidently, it took more than silence to drive a Banshee away.

 

“I have.” She turned her head slightly to the left and spoke over her shoulder. She couldn’t quite see Sylvanas and in all honesty she didn’t want to. Every moment with her ‘wife’ out of sight was a blessing indeed. “My desk.”

 

She turned back to her window then, and resumed her observation of the well lit section of the city. Though her focus was now on the gentle footsteps crossing her chambers, stopping somewhere to her right. The soft crunch of parchment followed.

 

“We will speak more of your terms tomorrow afternoon. I presume you’ve made the proper amendments?”

 

Jaina could feel her brittle patience cracking. ‘Proper amendments’, meaning the redacted request that Sylvanas spend at least a week of every month in Kul Tiras. It was hardly that she wanted the Warchief anywhere near her people- but were she to go there, Jaina would go there. It meant more time to see to her responsibilities as Lord Admiral. It meant more time with her actual family, which she’d only just begun building a relationship with again. More time in the life she -did- wish to lead.

 

But Sylvanas wouldn’t have it. ‘Lordaeron is fragile’ she’d said with a flat look in her eyes, ‘The city is hardly halfway rebuilt, not to mention the countless other concerns of building a new kingdom. I could hardly afford a day away let alone a week.’. As if running all of Kul Tiras was nothing in comparison.

 

So she was stuck teleporting betwixt the cities to attend to matters in either. As if she weren’t exhausted enough already.

 

“Certainly.” Jaina snapped, uncaring of the pure spite that laced her tone. Let Sylvanas be reminded of her hatred. It obviously wouldn’t change anything.

 

Silence fell over them once again. A minute dragged by, two minutes, and Jaina had begun to suspect Sylvanas already made her exit. Then she heard the sound of even footsteps once more. Making for the grand doors to her chambers.

 

“I have lived far longer than you, Proudmoore.” For as emotionless as it usually sounded there was something new injected in Sylvanas’ tone. It was annoyance veiled as a warning. “And I shall outlive you as well. It would be unwise to encourage me to ensure a _miserable_ remainder of your existence.”

 

The doors shut gently.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was just gonna include the first half- but then the idea for the second part hit me, and hek if I didn't roll with it. 
> 
> Thanks for all the comments so far <3 awesomeness


	3. Quivers And Safe Harbours

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Final chapter of exposition for the fic!
> 
> The Banshee Queen and Lord Admiral in their natural habitats.
> 
> And the beginning of something... that's been a long time coming.
> 
> (Next Update: Approx. 19th October, Friday)

Lordaeron’s Southern half. It was formerly the pride of the entire Kingdom. Where influential noble houses resided, in grand mansions and estates. The cobblestone streets regularly filled with horse drawn carriages or finely dressed nobility trailed by their servants. Amphitheatres and grand halls once stood around a sprawling park oft occupied by festivals. Grand parties held in the honour of yearly celebrations, and the King’s prosperous rule.

 

So far had it fallen in recent years. No once greatness could be assumed from the blanket of rubble that remained, evidence of the battles that had been fought here during Azeroth’s latest race war. Decayed bodies were pulled from the rubble from time to time. Pools of dried blood offered no surprise, nor did puddles of blight. Only the Forsaken were deemed fit to clear the area and even they found it a disgusting task.

 

Despite this, Sylvanas claimed the only room in the Keep’s spire that overlooked Lordaeron’s Southern half. In fact by her order it was among the first of the areas to be restored.

 

Interior decorating, as it so happened, took far longer than the repairs. Sylvanas spent many hours during the ‘Peace Talks’ mentally selecting which items she would bring to her chamber here, and which she would leave… elsewhere. It was hardly as if she missed much between all the needless bickering. The Banshee Queen caught herself wondering how the Alliance Council could function with it’s. Composition. A rabid dog, short human drunkards, an even shorter human with the voice of a nasally child and… well. The rather unremarkable rest.

 

They certainly hadn’t been the ones winning the war, by anyone’s standard.

 

Eventually she did determine which possessions to bring. An extensive rack of the finest wines from Quel’Thalas was placed beside her desk. The Forsaken crest, polished and intimidating as ever, hung regally above her fireplace mantle. Framed arrows lined the walls like paintings, sets of armour fitted over racks stood in one corner of the room. Not far from a full length mirror. To sate what vanity she had left.

 

A strongbox, plain in appearance, rested at the foot of her bed. Enchanted to be nigh impossible to break- even harder to move without destroying the runes beneath it. Provided one did not possess it’s key.

 

 

For the week following the wedding Sylvanas spent a few minutes of every night laying in her bed. Sinking into coal black furs, pale blonde hair falling around her shoulders. Her eyes meticulously scanning the room bathed in moonlight. And during every instance of this midnight brooding the same feeling wormed it’s way into her stilled heart, just insistent enough to provoke the slightest smirk. It was satisfaction.

 

The reason for which was clear to all who knew, a lifetime ago this very chamber had belonged to Prince Arthas Menethil.

 

But now all that was his, was hers. She ruled what was suppose to be his kingdom. She was queen to his subjects both living and undead. Sylvanas did not hesitate to take his former lover as her wife. Why else would she have married Proudmoore?

 

If not for victory. Complete and utter victory in more ways than the Warchief had considered possible until recently. All that was left to do was find whatever remained of the bastard’s corpse and parade it through the streets. With a sneer, Sylvanas Windrunner rose.

 

Hoping that in whatever hell Arthas found, he now knew pain and fury as she did.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Contrary to what seemed popular belief, Jaina Proudmoore did not make a library out of every bedroom she owned.

 

Especially not now, when her life was ruled by the political responsibility that came from running ****two**** kingdoms. Queendoms? Her room was, if nothing else made to be as relaxing as it possibly could be. A temporary escape from the expectations of her station. A place to rest her head if sleep were so kind as to visit the mage until the next task appeared.

 

While the crest of Lordaeron was to be found in nearly every corner of the city, for Jaina’s chambers there was only the Kul Tiran anchor. Mossy greens and golds decorated her bed along with most of the other things in her room. A personal choice. Though she certainly hadn’t been the one to select her ornate set of furniture, the too-large tub in the corner of her room, nor the chandelier that hung from her ceiling. Along with all the other extensive trappings to her surroundings.

 

It wasn’t that Jaina did not appreciate these things, and whoever arranged for them, because she did. But anyone who knew war as intimately as Jaina did not necessarily… require all of it. Not to mention that it made all the more obvious to the Lord Admiral that she had yet to put anything truly personal into her _personal_ space. The room felt more like an incredibly impressive guest room than her new home.

 

She suspected that feeling would linger for some time. It was quite the change, having just settled back into the city she’d grown up in and now living in Lordaeron. New Lordaeron? Reforged Lordaeron? Restordaeron? Whatever the people were calling it as of late.

 

 

Jaina was currently seated at her desk. Reclined in the cushioned high back chair, eyes darting about the parchment in her hands. A letter from one of the Tidesages running Stormsong monastery. Politely requesting clearance to host their yearly ‘Tide Art’ festival come Mid-December. The usual number of guards would need be provided, the square in front of Proudmoore Keep cleared for the day, merchants given permission to set up temporary stalls…

 

She cast the parchment onto her desk. Noting with mild surprise that her sigh, as deep as the ocean itself, didn’t send the letter fluttering right back to Boralus.

 

Did Sylvanas do so much paperwork, wherever she was? Jaina had yet to discovered precisely where her _dearest wife_ decided to build her nest. It was something she aimed to discover, when she had the time. Not out of curiosity but so she knew precisely which area of the keep to avoid at all costs.

 

But _did she have as much paperwork?_ A jolt of envy slithered up the mage’s spine when she remembered Sylvanas needed no sleep. She had half as many cities to run, and twice the amount of time to run them. Not that Jaina had known the embrace of a full night’s sleep since-

 

The Lord Admiral was more heavy handed writing her response to the Tide Sages than she needed to be, her impeccable penmanship… peccable? Ugly dots of ink from a quill pressed to harshly were frequent over the parchment. Thankfully it came out legible enough.

 

Of course Sylvanas, who would do light knew nothing good with her unoccupied time, would have ample amounts of it. And Jaina, who had an estranged family to reconcile with, would find herself with none. She was frustratingly unsure of which bothered her more.

__

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

Genn Greymane. Ever since Gilneas had fallen back into his lap he truly felt as though he were a king once more. All the responsibility was a familiar weight on his shoulders and welcomed as an old friend. Though he couldn’t deny it was different now. Every decision he made felt a tad too hollow. Every evening, as he joined Mia in their room he caught himself staring at the candle at his bedside. Watching the flame burn bright. Wane. Flicker. Die.

 

But he wouldn’t dare to even __think__ the name that had been haunting him since the end of the war. And he wouldn’t. Not until the boy was avenged. Not until the Banshee bitch lay dying at his feet, just as-

 

 

 

 

The King of Gilneas grew haggard as the months of his reinstated rule passed. Despite the vigor provided by the worgen curse he looked decades older than he was. A slight slouch ruining his formerly proud posture. People said the veteran spent hours at a time walking the length of Greymane wall. Haunted by the memory of his son. Unable to do anything in that time but mourn.

 

They were half right.

 

“How much longer do you presume to make me wait.” The old king spoke into the wind, standing at the side of the wall overlooking Silverpine. His voice was as his appearance. Tired.

 

“Nothing is so simple as you think, Genn.” A voice came from a distance to his right. Feminine, but raspy. Just as drained as the king’s. “Do as you have been told. Only with patience will your vengeance come.”

 

“It’s been years. I already have patience. I would simply ask when your plan-”

  
  
”No.”

 

Genn didn’t bother saying anything else. He knew she had already left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From here on out there'll probably be more interaction between Sylvanas and Jaina, now that they've been pretty well established individually. Then we'll be diving straight into the first plot arc just hinted at!
> 
> ONCE AGAIN- THANK YOU! So much, for all the comments <3 All the positive feedback is hekin' awesome.


	4. Portraits and Pheasants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sylvanas finds something to appreciate about her marriage.
> 
> Jaina meets the first gnome she doesn't like.
> 
> Two Dark Rangers go hunting.

“The air is rather nice, this time of morning.”

 

Sylvanas Windrunner had never cared for the weather of Tirisfal. In spite of the changing seasons Undercity used to stay the same year round. Same temperature, same scenery, same stench of undeath on the air that circulated it's halls. But now her city was above ground and she had caught herself enjoying the change.

 

Because the air really wasrather nice. The smell of the forest carried thickly, wet pine over loose soil, and the chill did little against her skin save lend a slight tingle of sorts. As though her body fought against it’s former instincts. Remembering there was a time where she needed fear the cold, but knowing that time had long since passed. It… was an unsettling feeling. Yet she found herself seeking to experience the wind's chill night after night in spite of it. Or perhaps because of it?

 

“It’s actually freezing.” Ah, right. She had company.

 

Proudmoore's groggy voice reached her ears. The woman sounded like an exhausted mess, and when Sylvanas turned towards her, she realized the mage looked even worse. Eyes were bloodshot. Her robes wrinkled. Hair pulled up in a braid that was falling apart before the Banshee Queen’s eyes. She very much seemed to need a night’s rest, instead of the mug of coffee in her hands.

 

A frown curled the Dark Lady’s lips. Not from the state of her wife, but from the fact that the mage carried a scent she couldn’t quite name. Whatever it was, was overpowered almost entirely by the aroma of Jaina’s drink. Curiosity prodded the queen to take breath after unnecessary breath. A frustration mounting in the back of her mind as the identity of that smell continued to elude her-

 

“Are you going to drink that?”

  
  
At Jaina’s words her passing fascination fled. What?

 

She turned back towards the window she’d been standing beside, eyes immediately drawn to her own mug, left on the stone ledge. Had long had it been left there? Just a moment ago the contents were steaming and…. ah. She was enjoying the smell. Berries. Snowberry tea. How long had she been standing here?

 

Sylvanas sniffed dismissively, lifting her eyes to the sky. To find it significantly more blue than she expected, a telltale hint of the approaching sunrise. Hours, then.

 

“No.” She turned a purposeful glance at Jaina’s mug, then lifted her gaze to the mage. A brow arched. “But you __honestly__ intend to consume __that?__ Do you not possess a mirror, Proudmoore? Nor a bed?”

 

Sylvanas was not surprised when the reply she received had been a glare.

 

“I do.” Jaina all but sneered, taking a pointed sip from her mug. She wasted no time brushing past Sylvanas then. Spurred on by the sudden reminder of just how much she loathed the Warchief.

 

And that very same Warchief smiled as she passed. So quick to anger… perhaps there was a modicum of entertainment to be had from this marriage after all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jaina had a hand placed to her forehead by the time she arrived at her room, rubbing slowly against the onset of a headache. She'd been exhausted. She'd wanted coffee. So, the woman teleported the kitchen to brew a pot.

 

And spiked it with Kul Tiran rum. It was just one of those nights.

 

Running into Sylvanas had been the last thing she desired to happen on her way back, but with her luck, of course it had. Jaina rounded a corner in the halls to find those pale blue elvish ears poking out of a sea of blonde hair, as it swayed gently in the wind. Even from a side profile she could make out the glow of her eyes, the twin red auras burning bright against the darkness. The armour Windrunner wore was unmistakable as well. In the past months Jaina saw it countless times. Both on the battlefield and off.

 

As short as the conversation had been, it actually was actually less maddening than Jaina believed it would be. Blessedly indifferent. Something she reasoned as a result of the elf’s obviously wandering attention, a fact given away by one, small detail.

 

It was the ears. Twitching incessantly. A quirk Vereesa shared, whenever she lost herself to a moment of thoughtfulness. Something she found far more endearing when done by the younger sister.

 

But of course, Sylvanas had to ruin that too.

 

Jaina huffed out a breath. She drained what remained of her coffee, enjoying the burn as it went down (and the fact that is came from more than just temperature). Gods above and below. What was she to do about this? They couldn’t continue as they were forever, or at least, Jaina couldn’t. The thought of spending the rest of her life infuriated was nothing she liked to entertain.

 

“To the depths with it.” Jaina muttered to herself, as she brushed her paperwork aside. The archmage opened a small portal from which she pulled book after book. Spellbooks. There had to be a solution to her Banshee sized problem somewhere in there, that did not involve outright killing her. She could go another few decades without a faction war.

 

Then again. She could go another few decades without this marriage, too.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“YOU ARE TOO STIFF!”

 

Sylvanas scowled. She could hear Jaina sighing, and for the first time, appreciated that they were in agreement over something.

 

Every year it was customary for a royal family to have a portrait done. At first, Sylvanas had thought nothing of it. Standing still for any amount of time was incredibly easy for a corpse, and if nothing else, she could enjoy how much considerably harder it would be for Jaina. With her living muscles that tired too quickly.

 

What she had not expected was a gnome so arrogant he thought himself important enough as to order the Warchief of the Horde.

 

“Loosen your cheeks! You look like you’re going to bite somebody!”

 

Sylvanas grit her teeth as she tried to force her cheeks into ‘loosening’. Only an hour or so more. Then she could have this… tiny abomination thrown out of Lordaeron. Preferably from the ramparts.

 

“Eh.” A pink mohawk poked from around the side of a large canvas, along with two squinted green eyes. “Better. I guess.”

 

Sylvanas drew a deep breath. Launched from one of the canons, then.

 

She caught something in the corner of her eyes- a flicker in Jaina’s expression. The Lord Admiral’s lips having curled into a smirk for just a moment. Suddenly the anger in the pit of the Banshee Queen’s black, black soul grew many times it’s previous size. The audacity. It was enough for her to raise her arm, muscles firm, like a viper ready to strike-

 

And lay it around Proudmoore’s hips. Tightly enough to pull the woman in flush against her side.

 

To her satisfaction, Jaina’s reaction was just as outraged as she hoped it would be. Eyes with no business being as blue and crystal clear as they were widened, followed by full lips opening to make passage for what was surely to be an insult. Or an accusation. Either way, an embodied of the Lord Admiral’s fury that would be __just__ the entertainment Sylvanas needed to get through the rest of this afternoon.

 

Then that same, squeaky voice rang out.

 

“YES! YES THAT IS ****PERFECT!**** KEEP YOUR ARM THERE! MAKE BEDROOM EYES!”

 

… perhaps she would simply pay the gnome once this was all over. He was just doing his job.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Why did you paint us like __that.__ ’’

  
  
Jaina wouldn’t believe her eyes, if the portrait weren’t staring her in the face. Literally. Once it had been finished Sylvanas wasted no time paying the gnome and going on her way. But Jaina stayed to see the final result.

 

She was not amused.

 

Not by the fact that Sylvanas’ arm was painted around her waist, although she had been expecting that. It was more the fact that this gnome (Pierro Fierro was his name, apparently) had painted Sylvanas as though she had been looking down at Jaina. Smirking in that smug, self assured way she did to get a rise out of those around her. 

 

And she hated that the gnome had omitted the scowl that had most certainly been resting on her own face, instead choosing to replace it with an immediately noticeable blush on her cheeks.  _When she most certainly had not been blushing._

 

“I’ve got to paint the happy couple, as a **happy couple**. S’my job! If you don’t like it, hire someone else next time!”

 

Jaina… frowned. Why -had- they hired this gnome? His talent was not to be dismissed, but she was certain Sylvanas would not have had the patience to exchange a word with him. Let alone hire _Pierro Fierro._ So who did?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Somewhere in the forests outside Lordaeron, a pair of dark rangers shot arrows into the distance. For the most part in silence, though the quiet was often broken by snide remarks. The Kaldorei insulting the human’s form as he drew his bow string. The man scoffing at his elven partner’s huffs of annoyance, when her hair fell into her face. The band she usually used to keep it out of the way having ‘mysteriously disappeared’ earlier in the day.

 

The silence was broken once more by the Kaldorei, as the human stepped forward to fire an arrow.

 

“Do you think she will punish us.” The woman’s gravelly voice betrayed no hint of emotion.

 

“With any luck, she’ll kill the gnome instead.” Nathanos sighed as he reached for his quiver. “Then raise it. A fine moving target for practice."

 

Delaryn sneered, eyes rolling beneath her hood. “It would be preferable to these birds.”

 

Nathanos loosed his arrow. And far, far in the distance… a pheasant fell from the sky. Shot straight through the chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does it count as late if I posted after midnight? Oh well, here it is XD
> 
> Pierro Fierro is a legend.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to hit me with your ideas for this fic! Little one shot stuff is more than welcome, and I'll try to slot it in. 
> 
> Glory to the Forsaken, bitches.


End file.
